Peck us pray

It was one of those moments in history when everyone remembers where they were when they heard the news.

And those who saw it live on television may never be the same again.

I refer, of course, to the shock news that old goldenballs himself has broken not just any old bone but the bone. The big kahula. The whammer-jammer. The mojo the other mojos call Mistah Mojo. Yes, today, the sad news is that you find Samuel J. Snort Esq with his great big dick in a splint.

It was just one of those things. No-one in particular is to blame. Argentinian actress Eva is distraught, I’m told, on account of the fact that it was in the course of one impossibly gymnastic move during our recent joint appearance on the excellent Red, Hot and Blue channel, that viewers heard a terrible popping sound followed by the frankly alarming sight of me falling with a thud from the chandelier.

In the world of top professional porn, you’ve got to be prepared to roll with the punches, not to mention wriggle with the slaps and wobble with the table tennis bats. And if you end up with the odd bit of arse burn, pecker rash or temporary blood circulation loss, well, what of it? As my man Zimmy says: “every pleasure’s got an edge of pain.” (Of course, you can go too far - but, hey, this is no time to start revisiting Self-Portrait).

So, no, I don’t hold anything against Eva. But then, I’m in no position to hold anything against anyone for 14 to 28 days.

Sleeping Giant Pandemonium ensued when word got out from the hospital. My old chums in The Sun were first on the line, offering to run a picture of my damaged love truncheon on the front page. “We propose inviting readers to lay their hands on the picture and pray for your speedy recovery,” they told me. This seemed utterly absurd to me. “Why not cut out the middle-man and send ‘em straight ‘round here?”, I replied. In the end we compromised: page three lovely Belinda will pop in just as soon as the medics think it’s safe to manipulate the sleeping giant. And, of course, a top snapper with a wide-angle lens will be on hand to capture what the more spiritually minded of my devotees are already calling ‘The Resurrection’.

Meantime, tributes and messages of sympathy have been poring in from all over the world as people recognise that this is the biggest news story of this or any other year.

Even my old buddy Yassar Arafat, in his besieged headquarters, managed to send his best wishes by mobile phone. “The news of this great affront to the holiest of holies puts our own little problems in perspective,” the Chairman told me. He then put Colin Powell on the line. “Too much fucking perspective,” the top Yank quipped good-naturedly, before asking me if I could get him a couple of tickets for this year’s Ozzfest. What a card.

Our own Bertie was next to call and, with the help of a translator, I was able to work out that he was making a mildly amusing comparison between my present predicament and the erection of the O’ Connell Street spike. Apparently, there’s now even a suggestion that the gleaming spire should be named after my good self. At least, that’s what I suggested to Bertie. And I also informed that I fully intend to be standing for the next election.

Gerry Adams took time out from sifting through the mess of the Shinners’ latest poll results to send his kind regards. At least that’s what I

think he said, but since the old rascal insisted

on speaking in Irish, I’m really only guessing. Suffice to say the words “todger mór” featured

a great deal. For my part, I assured him that the next Easter Rising would really bring tears to his eyes.

Penis Monologue

One unhappy side effect of the enforced temporary hibernation of the world’s most famous one-eyed trouser snake is that I’ve had to postpone the inaugural performance of The Penis Monologues at the Project (sorry, I mean, of course, @theproject).

Readers will be aware that some of the country’s most prominent babes recently gave us The Vagina Monologues in Dublin. I went along expecting a great night’s entertainment only to emerge bemused that a subject of such massive potential could be turned into theatre of such numbing blandness. I mean, for chrissakes, not one them took their clothes off.

It’ll be very different, I can assure you, for The Penis Monologues. You may learn bugger all about the complexities of the male psyche but I can guarantee it’ll be the most sensational ventriloquist’s act since Keith Harris first stuck his hand up the arse of Orville The Duck.

From the man who put the log in monologue, I remain…

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq